


A Real Chore

by domesticadventures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, warning for cavalier statements about death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 07:16:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14950070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures
Summary: “I swear to God,” Dean tells Cas’ voicemail, “if you just forgot to charge your phone or some shit and got me worried for nothing, I’m gonna kill you.”





	A Real Chore

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this instead of working on my 3 projects with deadlines! shoutout to [kora](http://beenghosting.tumblr.com/) for ~~enabling me~~ all her input :D

“I swear to God,” Dean tells Cas’ voicemail, “if you just forgot to charge your phone or some shit and got me worried for nothing, I’m gonna kill you.” He hits the “end call” button harder than he needs to and tosses his phone down onto the seat.

Sam frowns at him from the passenger side. “He’s been sick,” Sam says. “He’s probably just out cold or something. Or left his phone in another room.”

Dean tightens his grip on the steering wheel. The last text he got from Cas was at 8:18 the night before: **_Stay safe_** **.** The rest are all from Dean, sent but unacknowledged: a quick **_All done._** **_Driving back after we catch a few zzzs_** after they wrapped up the hunt in the early hours of the morning, a **_Heading out, hope ur enjoying sleeping in_** as they turned in their motel room keys, a **_Hey man just checking in_** when they stopped for gas, **_U ok?_** as he tried to choke down some lunch and **_C’mon just lemme know the bunker didn’t burn down while we were gone lol_** once he left his mostly empty plate on the table.

After that, he started leaving voicemails.

At first, he could have explained the radio silence away -- he knows Cas isn’t a morning person, even at the best of times. Later, he could even have reasoned that Cas wasn’t thrilled about being left behind on this hunt. But now? He should have responded by now. He can be as petty as anyone, but he’s not cruel.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Sure.”

It’s a long drive back to the bunker, though, and by the time they hit the 24-hour mark without word from Cas, Sam stops with the reassurances. He doesn’t say anything as Dean steps harder on the gas.

\--

“Hey, Cas, we’re home,” Dean calls out as he takes the stairs down from the garage two at a time. “Cas?”

Sam’s calls of “Cas, you here?” follow Dean down the hallway as he makes his way to Cas’ room, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees the post-it stuck to the door:

> _ Found a hunt. Back soon. _

Something in Dean’s chest tightens, makes him feel like he can’t breathe.

Sam comes bounding down the hallway, tablet in hand, and says, “Dean?”

Dean drags a hand over his face, gestures to the note as Sam comes to a stop next to him.

“Oh, shit,” Sam says.

“Yeah.” Dean pulls out his phone, pulls up Cas from his recent contacts, hits “call.” He paces back and forth down the hallway as it rings, barking out a truncated laugh when Cas’ voicemail starts playing,  _ This is my voicemail, make your voice a mail.  _ “Cas, you idiot, give me a call. Please.”

Dean turns on his heel, pushes past Sam and his sympathetic look and storms down the hallway with Sam trailing behind him.

“He’s not showing up on the GPS,” Sam says, tapping away at his tablet. “His phone must be dead, or maybe he’s somewhere with no service--”

Dean ignores him as he makes his way into the library. The spare laptop is sitting on the table, and he silently prays Cas is as negligent as he is when it comes to the damn computer. He pulls it open, tapping at the touchpad to get it to wake up. Chrome is already open. “Sam. Shortcut for history?”

“Control H,” Sam says.

Cas’ entire time-stamped browsing history fills up the screen. Dean clicks through them one by one with Sam leaning over his shoulder, and together they follow the pieces Cas put together -- an article about a recent disappearance in the midwest, archives about disappearances in the area dating back decades, research on local mining history, lore on wendigo, and, finally, a Google Maps search from Lebanon, Kansas, to Springbrook, North Dakota.

Dean looks back at the timestamps. The articles are from yesterday morning. The Google Maps searches are from yesterday afternoon. And then there’s nothing. 

“He’s got over a day’s head start on us,” Dean says, voice shaking. “We gotta go.”

They were just on the road for over 14 hours straight, and it’s another 13 to North Dakota, even if they don’t stop all night. But Sam doesn’t argue. Instead, he walks over to where he dropped his duffel by the stairs, picks it up, and heads back into the garage.

\--

They stop once to take a piss and get gas but otherwise make the drive straight through. Their short break is the only time Dean can bring himself to call Cas again. He gets as far as  _ This is my voicem--  _ before he hangs up.

Springbrook is little more than an afterthought on the side of the road. As they roll into the parking lot of the one restaurant in town, Sam glances down at his phone. “No service,” he says. He takes a deep breath, lets it out in a gusting sigh. “That could be a good sign. He could be-- he might still be working the case. That might explain it.”

Dean doesn’t dignify that with a response. He gets out of the Impala, not bothering to lock it as he heads into the restaurant.

It doesn’t even take five minutes to crush any hope they had left. One flash of Cas’ picture to the bartender gets them everything they need to know.

\--

The temperature drops another ten degrees as they enter the tunnel armed with their flare guns and home-brewed flamethrowers.

Dean is far beyond caring about his own safety. He moves through the tunnel as quickly as he can, kicking rocks and debris out of the way as both he and Sam shout Cas’ name.

The dim light filtering in through the tunnel entrance has long since disappeared behind them by the time they get a faint “Hello?” in response -- not Cas’ voice, but what sounds like that of a young woman. As they pause to share a glance, she shouts, louder, “Help me, please help, please.”

They take off at a jog and only come to a stop when they run right into the wendigo.

It’s lying in the middle of the tunnel at their feet, skin charred black, limbs curled and burnt. Sam nudges it with his foot, grimacing. It doesn’t respond.

Dean holds his breath as he moves the beam of his flashlight away from the wendigo. He directs it farther down the tunnel foot by foot until it lands on another form, one in a familiar jacket with a familiar dark mess of hair, lying completely still.

“Please help me,” the woman cries out.

Dean croaks out, “Go to her.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, and takes off down the tunnel.

Dean approaches Cas slowly, kneels down next to him and says, “Cas?” He sets his flashlight down, angling it as best he can so he can see what he’s doing, and gently reaches out to roll Cas over onto his back. His head lolls to the side, dirt coating his face, bits of gravel stuck to his cheek from lying on the ground for God knows how long.

Dean swallows hard, heart hammering in his chest, and grabs Cas by his shoulders. Even through his clothes, he can feel how cold Cas is. He gives him a shake anyway as he says, “Hey, wake up.”

He may not be surprised that he doesn’t get a response, but he still doesn’t have the guts to press his fingers to Cas’ neck just yet.

“Okay,” Dean says, swallowing hard. “Okay.”

He’s partway through brushing the gravel off Cas’ face with his thumb when Cas groans, blinks up at him and says, “Dean?”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Dean says.

Cas’ breath hitches. Voice breaking, he says, “You’re here.”

Dean reaches for him, gets a hand on his chest, his shoulder. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says. “You’re okay. Let’s-- let’s get you out of here, all right?” He shifts to get a better grip on Cas, start helping him up.

“Wait,” Cas gasps, grabbing at Dean’s arm. He closes his eyes, mouth a tight line. “My leg. I think it’s broken.”

“Which one?” Dean asks.

“Left.”

Dean taps at Cas’ arm to signal to let go, then grabs his flashlight and shifts down towards Cas’ legs. Pulling his knife from his belt, he carefully cuts through Cas’ pant leg, pulls the fabric away and stops.

He’s seen a lot of broken bones, but it still makes his stomach twist, seeing the way Cas’ bone is bent at an odd angle, pressing unnaturally against the inside of his skin.

“How bad is it?” Cas asks through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, that’s, uh,” Dean says. “Definitely broken.” Cas makes a pained noise as Dean moves back to kneel by his torso. “Hey, it’s okay, we’ll get you fixed up.” He sets his flashlight back down and takes Cas’ hands in his, breathes on his fingers as he tries to rub some warmth into them. “Jesus,” he says. “You’re freezing.”

“I’d say sleeping here is marginally worse than even the worst motel,” Cas says, grimacing. “Zero stars.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, we’ll have to leave a nasty Google review as soon as we’re outta here.”

They go still as footsteps approach from further down the cave. In the dim light, Dean can just make out the shape Sam and the young woman he’s carrying in his arms as she clings to him. He sighs in relief as he looks down at Cas, illuminated by the beam of Dean’s flashlight.

“Hey, Cas,” he says. “Good to see you, man.”

“Hi, Sam,” Cas manages.

“We’re gonna need an ambulance,” Dean says.

Sam nods. “Coming right up,” he says. He readjusts his grip on the woman in his arms and takes off down the tunnel, back towards the light.

\--

They get the full story at the hospital, after Cas has been cleaned up, his leg set and wrapped in a cast, his bruised ribs looked at, pain meds administered.

They sit on either side of the bed as Cas tells them what happened. In a sleepy voice, he explains that he went searching for a hunt. He thought this one would be easy -- it seemed like there were so few unknowns, like he would be over-prepared. He was wrong. The wendigo was faster and stronger than he expected, threw him like a ragdoll. He landed badly, but he managed to get off a lucky shot with the flare gun, catch the wendigo in the chest. As it went up in flames, he dug his phone out of his pocket -- still no service. That’s the last thing he remembered before he passed out from the pain.

The initial adrenaline has worn off, and now, Dean can feel every mile on the road, every hour without a word from Cas. His head aches, pressure building at his temples, behind his eyes, down through his jaw. He says, “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Cas looks over at him, a wild smile spreading across his face. “I thought no one was coming for me.” He chuckles, as if to himself, and there’s something familiar about it Dean can’t quite place, something dark and ugly and desperate that makes his throat burn. Cas says, “I thought I was going to die there.”

Dean feels like he’s going to throw up. He stands and walks out.

\--

Cas sleeps through most of the drive back, but he’s conscious enough when they arrive that he shrugs off Dean’s attempt to help him out of the car.

Sam raises an eyebrow at Dean from where he’s pulling their bags out of the back. Dean jerks his head towards the door and Sam gets the message, closes the trunk with a shrug and takes off into the bunker.

Dean grabs the crutches from where Sam left them leaning against the Impala and stands at a respectful distance, watching as Cas hauls himself up off the seat and limps his way to the door, wincing. He follows as Cas tries to make his way down the stairs, leaning heavily against the railing and trying not to put any pressure on his left leg, drawing in a sharp breath when he accidentally hits it against a step. Just a few steps down and he’s breathing hard.

“Cas, c’mon,” Dean says.

“I don’t need your help,” Cas grits out.

Dean sighs. “No offense, man, but that attitude is exactly what got you into this situation in the first place.”

Cas stops at that. Clenches his jaw, swallows. Finally, he gives a single nod, not meeting Dean’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Dean says. He pulls Cas’ arm over his shoulders, slips his own around Cas’ waist, and helps him the rest of the way down the stairs, one slow step at a time.

Cas takes his arm back as soon as they get to the bottom. Dean offers him the crutches, and without a word, he takes them and hobbles his way to his room.

\--

Two days, zero meals, and a few dozen declined offers after they return from the hospital, Dean lets himself into Cas’ room.

As soon as he sits on the bed, Cas turns and lies on his side, facing away. Disappointment blossoms in his chest, but Dean swallows against it and asks, “Do you want something to eat?”

“No,” Cas says.

“Okay. Something to drink, at least?”

“No.”

“Do you wanna watch a movie? Or maybe I can bring you a book?”

“No.”

Dean sighs internally. “C’mon, Cas,” he says. “Talk to me.”

Cas lies there, Dean watching him carefully, listening to his quiet breathing. As long as Cas hasn’t fallen asleep, he doesn’t intend to leave.

“I just wanted to help,” Cas says eventually. “I just wanted to be useful to you, Dean, that’s all I wanted. And now, like this, I’m even worse than useless. I’m a burden.” He sighs, and then he adds, so quietly that Dean isn’t sure he was meant to hear, “You should have just left me there.”

Dean swallows hard. Opens his mouth, closes it again. Runs a hand over his face. But finally, he shifts, moves to face Cas more fully. He puts a hand on Cas shoulder and says, “Hey. Sit up.”

Cas sighs again, but when Dean tugs on his shoulder, he follows. He rolls onto his back and lets Dean pull him to sitting, looks down at his lap as Dean gets a hand on each of his arms.

“Cas,” Dean says. “Look at me.”

Cas swallows and finally looks up.

“You’re not a burden,” Dean says. “Jesus, Cas, you could never be a burden, how could you think that?”

Cas shrugs, looks away.

Dean ignores the ache in his chest and pulls Cas into a hug. Cas takes a shuddering breath but leaves his arms limp at his sides.

Dean holds him tighter, anyway. Face tucked against Cas’ neck, he says, “I’m glad you’re here.”

\--

“Cas okay?” Sam asks as Dean steps back into the kitchen.

“Yeah, uh.” Dean clears his throat. “Not really.” He sits down across from Sam, elbows on the table, and runs his hands through his hair.

Sam considers him. “Are you?” he asks.

Dean scoffs. “No, man, I’m not,” he says. “He said...he said he’s useless. That he’s a burden. I mean, Jesus, Cas is-- he’s my best friend, he’s our family, has been for, what, over a decade now? How could he think that-- that we--” He throws his hands up, lets them land back on the table with a  _ thunk. _

“You know being human hasn’t been easy for him,” Sam says, brow furrowed. “I’m sure it wasn’t an accusation.”

“I know,” Dean says, sighing. “I know. But what do I even say to that? What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

Sam shrugs. He looks down at the table and says, tentatively, “I know you’ve been trying, Dean. But, uh.”

“You don’t need to soft handle me,” Dean says. “Just tell me.”

Sam snorts.

“What about this is funny?”

“Nothing,” Sam says. “It’s just that’s exactly what I was about to tell you. That maybe Cas doesn’t need to be soft handled.”

“I’m not soft handling him,” Dean snaps.

Sam holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m on your side,” he says. “But I’m on his side, too.”

Dean takes a measured breath, reminds himself that Sam is trying to help. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “So?”

“You have this thing you do, especially when you’re worried about someone,” Sam says. “You kind of, uh...aggressively want to take care of them.”

“Yeah, so? You saying I’m being too nice?”

“It’s not that,” Sam says slowly, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I get that you’re doing it because you care. But sometimes it can come off as kind of patronizing.”

“Okay?” Dean says.

“I’m just saying people don’t always need you to use the kid gloves.” Sam shrugs. “You don’t have to be everybody’s dad, Dean.”

Dean huffs. “I know that.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “Do you really?”

Dean shifts in his seat.

“I’m just saying, Dean,” Sam says. “It wouldn’t kill you to let other people help you out, too.”

\--

Cas looks up from the laptop when Dean knocks on his open door, slipping off his headphones as Dean leans against the frame.

“Hey,” Dean says. “Need your help with something.”

Cas frowns at him. “With what?”

“Dinner isn’t gonna make itself.”

“I’m not hungry,” Cas says, and starts to put his headphones back on.

“Yeah, well, there are three of us, and we all need to eat,” Dean says. “Plus, there’s prep for the rest of the week that needs doing, and like hell am I doing all that work myself.”

Cas squints at him for a long moment, but eventually he sighs, closing the laptop and setting it aside. He puts his good leg down onto the floor before carefully lowering his injured leg off the bed. Dean resists the urge to rush over unprompted, to ask if he can help. Instead, he stands in the doorway, waiting as Cas grabs the crutches from beside his bed and slowly manages to get himself up and make his way over to Dean.

“After you,” Dean says, moving aside to let Cas by, taking his place at his side as they move down the hallway and into the kitchen.

Cas sits at the table while Dean grabs everything they need from the fridge and cupboards. Dean takes a seat across from him and splits the pile between them, sliding Cas a knife and cutting board.

“Okay,” he says. “So. I need the broccoli cut into bite-sized florets, and the onions diced as fine as you can get ‘em, and the brussels sprouts cut in half.”

“All right,” Cas says, hesitating only a moment before he picks up the knife. He gets to work on the brussels sprouts first, examining each one, peeling off outer layers he deems unacceptable before he slices them in two and drops them into the waiting container.

Dean cuts up the meat, tossing the pieces into separate ziploc bag for future marinating and freezing, and watches Cas become increasingly frustrated as he slowly, carefully dices up the onions. “Thought you were supposed to be good with a blade,” he says.

Cas huffs, looking down at the offending knife. “If I needed to kill someone with this, I promise I’d have no problem.”

Dean laughs. “Hey now,” he says, “don’t get any ideas.”

The quirk of Cas’ mouth turns into an actual small smile when Dean nudges his uninjured leg under the table. Grinning, face warm, Dean gets up to wash his cutting board.

\--

“Hey,” Dean says, interrupting the conversation Sam and Cas are having over the book open on the table between them, “need your help with something after lunch.”

“Whose?” Sam asks.

“Both of you,” he says. “Impala needs fixing, and I’m not gonna spend twice as much time on it just ‘cause nobody is willing to come pass me the stuff I need.”

“Is that really a three person job?” Cas asks.

“Either of you know what an oil pan gasket looks like?”

Sam and Cas share a look.

“Uh,” Sam says.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Dean says. Bring your tablet, I’m sure you’ll need it.”

\--

The afternoon finds them in the garage, Dean under the Impala down to his thighs, Cas sitting on the floor leaning against the car, Sam perched on a stool with his tablet in hand.

Dean sets about replacing the oil pan, calling out for the tools and parts he needs. Sam looks them up on his tablet and describes them to Cas, who leans over and passes them into Dean’s waiting hand.

(“Oil pan gasket,” Dean says.

“It’s the, uh,” Sam says. Black...thing...with holes in it.”

“Wow,” Dean says. “You really painted me a picture with your words.”

Cas hands him the gasket, chuckling softly.

“Shut up,” Sam says.)

They make quick work of it, Dean sliding out from under the Impala once the last bolt is in place. Once they’re all standing, he claps Cas and Sam on their shoulders.

“Thanks, guys,” he says. “You really saved me a lot of time.”

Sam looks down at Dean’s oil-covered hand on his shoulder and sighs. “C’mon, Dean, I really liked this shirt.”

Cas sighs, too, rolling his eyes, but in his peripheral vision, Dean catches a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

\--

“Spring cleaning,” Dean says, handing Cas a rag.

Cas raises an eyebrow. “It’s January.”

Dean shrugs. “It’s spring somewhere.”

Sam drags a finger across one of the bookshelves. “Yeah,” he says, examining the dust, “and it was time to clean in here roughly three seasons ago.”

Dean claps, rubs his hands together. “Then I guess it’s time to get to work.” He grabs the broom from where he left it leaning against the table and heads for a particularly dirty-looking corner.

He sweeps the library methodically as Cas dusts the shelves and Sam wipes down the tables, moving around them as he goes, waiting for them to step aside so he can get every last remnant of the 1950s up off the floor.

By the time he’s finished sweeping and is ready to trade his broom in for a mop and bucket, Sam has fetched a ladder and has begun switching out the dead lightbulbs. Cas, meanwhile, is still cleaning off the shelves, balancing carefully on his crutches as he works.

In fact, he’s got a few left to go once Dean and Sam finish their respective tasks, so they each grab a rag to help finish up the dusting.

Halfway through moving a row of books out of the way, Dean catches Cas watching him, brow furrowed. He’s stopped dusting, his hand resting on top of his rag as he considers Dean. “What’s up?” Dean asks.

Cas looks away. “Nothing,” he says, as he drags his rag along the shelf.

\--

“I used to do this with my mom when I was real little,” Dean says, smiling at the memory as he pulls the laundry out of the dryer and moves the next load over from the wash. “She’d bury me in the warm towels and pretend she couldn’t find me. Thought it was the funniest thing in the world.” He tosses a towel at Cas where he’s sitting.

Cas’ hand snaps up, catching the towel easily before it can land on his head. When he lowers it into his lap, though, he’s frowning. Dean’s smile fades.

“I know what you’re doing,” Cas says, “and you don’t need to patronize me.”

Dean stares at him, mouth agape. “I’m not patronizing you,” he says defensively. “That’s the opposite of what I’m doing.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not,” Dean says. Cas stares back silently until Dean finally looks away. “What?”

“I know you don’t actually need my help completing basic tasks, Dean.”

Heat flushes up Dean’s neck. “Yeah, so?”

“I’m more of a hindrance to you than a help. I’m making everything take longer and you know it.”

“Maybe I like the company.”

Cas sighs. “Dean.”

Dean leans against the wall, crossing his arms. He asks, “You ever done laundry by yourself?”

“Yes,” Cas says. “I’m not incompetent, I--”

“Was it fun?”

Cas narrows his eyes. “No.”

Dean sweeps his arm out, gesturing to the two of them, to the unfolded basket of towels. “Is this?”

Cas holds his gaze for a long moment before his shoulders drop and he looks away, down at the floor. “I appreciate you asking for my help,” he says. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ll never be able to do what I used to.” He gestures to his leg. “Even if this were already healed, I wouldn’t be able to help on hunts like I did before. I can’t smite demons, I can’t heal wounds, I can’t--” He inhales, closes his eyes. Exhales. When he speaks again, it’s quieter. “I can’t do anything that’s actually important.”

“No offense, but that’s bullshit,” Dean says. When Cas looks up sharply, he continues, “Hunting is our  _ job, _ Cas. All this mundane crap, like cooking and doing the dishes and sitting around watching Netflix? This is our  _ life. _ It  _ is  _ important. It’s important to me.”

Dean takes a breath, withers a little under the intensity of the way Cas is watching him, feels the flush migrate up from his neck and into his face. He grabs another towel from the basket, holds it out.

“C’mon,” he says quietly. “This laundry isn’t gonna fold itself.”

Cas reaches out to take the towel, lingering for a moment as his fingers brush Dean’s own. “Okay,” he says.

\--

Dean is wrist-deep in dough when Cas appears in the kitchen doorway and asks, hesitantly, “Need any help?”

Dean grins up at him. “Yeah, sure, I’d love another set of hands.” He nods towards the sink. “Go ahead and wash up.”

Dean finishes mixing the dough by the time Cas has dried his hands. He scoots over to make room for him at the counter, and they stand side by side as they roll out the dough, casually bumping into each other as they do so.

“Okay, no, a little smaller,” Dean says, surveying Cas’ work. “We’re making single-serve pot pies, not an actual pie.”

“I wouldn’t object to actual pie,” Cas says, hands stilling. “As opposed to these fake pies.”

“Sam will be so disappointed when he finds out all we have for dinner are these imaginary pies,” Dean says.

“Truly,” Cas says blandly. Dean snorts as Cas re-rolls the dough.

He gets the sizing right on his second attempt. They fall into an easy rhythm, moving next to and around one another as they finish making the crusts, pressing them into the pans, adding the filling and tops. They load the pies onto a tray, Dean handling them carefully as he slides them into the oven.

Timer set, Dean turns back around and catches sight of Cas. There’s flour trailing all down his front, and Dean chuckles as he steps in close, fruitlessly trying to dust a bit off Cas’ shirt. “You’re a mess.”

Cas’ chest moves under Dean’s hand as he huffs a laugh, his skin warm through the fabric. “I’m an amateur cook at best,” Cas says. “What’s your excuse?” He taps at Dean’s chest, where spots of flour dust the front of his shirt.

“I was distracted,” Dean says, hand still lingering on Cas’ chest.

“Oh?” Cas says. He looks up at him, eyebrow raised, then down at his mouth.

“Yeah, uh,” Dean says, heart racing. He steels himself, leans forward just a little more to press his lips to Cas’, and--

Cas grimaces, raising a hand to Dean’s chest as he says, “Dean, wait.”

Dean jerks back. “I-- sorry, I--”

“It itches,” Cas says. He bends over, twisting awkwardly as he tries to reach far enough down into his cast to scratch his leg.

“Oh,” Dean says. He exhales, consciously willing himself to unclench. “Uh. Hang on, I know just the trick.” He heads straight for their junk drawer, moving aside stacks of restaurant fliers until he finds a pair of takeout chopsticks still in their wrapper. After a quick check to make sure they’re not a splinter waiting to happen, he moves back to where Cas is still futilely shoving his fingers behind the fiberglass. “Hey, stand up,” he says.

As Cas pulls his hands away from his cast and straightens, Dean drops to one knee, tapping Cas’ knee with the chopsticks. “Take your weight off it,” he says, and Cas shifts, standing on his uninjured leg as he balances with his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Carefully, Dean sticks the chopsticks down beneath the cast and scratches gently at Cas’ leg. “Here?”

“To the right,” Cas says, and then, “No, my right.” Dean adjusts the chopsticks, grinning as he finds the right spot and Cas groans in relief.

“All good?” Dean asks, once Cas has stopped grimacing.

“Yes,” Cas says. “Thank you.” As Dean stands, Cas’ hand still on his shoulder, he adds, “I don’t know how much longer I could have stood that.”

“Mmhmm, that was a close one,” Dean says. He leans around Cas to toss the chopsticks onto the counter, and when he leans back, Cas is watching him.

“What?” he says.

Cas tugs him in by his shoulder and kisses him.

It’s just a quick press of lips against the corner of his mouth, but it sets Dean’s heart back to racing. He steadies himself with a hand against the counter, gets the other around Cas’ waist, ignores the smug look Cas is giving him, and leans in again.

Cas smiles into the kiss, shifts to slide both of his hands to Dean’s neck, run his thumbs against the hair at Dean’s nape. Dean runs his tongue along Cas’ bottom lip, and as Cas opens to him, Sam says, “Hey, when is dinn--oh.”

Dean keeps his eyes resolutely shut as he listens to the shuffling sound of Sam pivoting and walking back the way he came from.

He groans, dropping his head to Cas’ shoulder. Cas shakes beneath him, and when he stands back up and opens his eyes, he finds Cas trying and failing to suppress his silent laughter.

“You should--” he tries. “You should have seen Sam’s face.”

Dean huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes as he pulls Cas into a hug, lets him laugh into his shoulder.

When he finally stills, Dean pulls back to look at him. He reaches up with one hand, brushes a thumb against Cas’ cheekbone, and murmurs, “I’m really glad you’re here.”

Cas returns the gesture. He says, “Me, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> [here's](http://domesticadventures.tumblr.com/post/174957588607/) the rebloggable post on tumblr if you're so inclined!


End file.
